


the language of flowers

by tinysmallest



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: F/M, iiiiiiiiit's flaSHBACK TIME
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 04:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18652699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinysmallest/pseuds/tinysmallest
Summary: On a wall in the studio, a poem is scrawled. There are lots of poems scrawled on the walls, and they all have a story-- pieces of a fractured mind, coming together for brief moments in flashes of memories stolen from him, in flashes of other memories he shouldn’t have to bear the burden of.He’ll forget these things as soon as his poem is written, but for now...





	the language of flowers

**Author's Note:**

> I had a burst of poetic inspiration and decided I wanted to incorporate that poem into an actual one-shot, so enjoy this collection of memories. Yes, it’s part of an au, but that doesn’t have any bearing on the content here.

#### SUNFLOWERS, DAISIES

_"Delivery for you, Miss Campbell!”_

_“Thanks, Wally, but I told you, Susie’s just fine,” she said with a smile, accepting the vase of flowers with a look that quickly turned curious. As Wally tipped his hat and left the room, she grabbed for the tag, face turning sour. “Ugh...”_

_“Mmm? Don’t tell me there’s a bug on it?” Sammy said, turning the rest of the way around in his chair to look. One hand went for the nearby fly swatter. He hoped it wasn’t a bee._

_“No, no- it’s- just-” She sighed, setting the vase down. Sammy’s hand retreated from where it was groping for the fly swatter. “It’s probably a little rude of me, but I just- I_ did _tell him I prefer sunflowers...”_

_“Sunflowers?” Sammy looked from the roses, the sight of which made his chest clench, to Susie. “Him?”_

_“An old flame. Few days ago he asked me out for coffee, talked about maybe getting back together.” She pursed her lips at the vase, folding her arms and looking down at it as if not quite sure what to make of it. “I broke up with him because- he’s nice enough, but he just doesn’t listen! I was hoping maybe he’d worked on that but... I mean I_ did _tell him every Valentine’s Day we were together that I liked sunflowers and daisies best and he still got me roses and he’s still doing that.”_

_Sammy rested his chin against his hand. “Oh, he’s that kind of person who you talk to but nothing sticks.”_

_“Exactly- well, maybe not exactly, because it’s not even like he’s forgetful? He remembers things just fine, usually. It’s more like...” She gestured, seeking to pull the words she needed from the air. “When I broke up with him I asked him a number of questions about me. You know, my favorite flower, my favorite smell, how I like my coffee, favorite movie, favorite animal... little things like that? He only got a single one right!”_

_“So it’s more like he just didn’t care about_ you.”

_“Yeah, that’s the impression I got.” She shook her head. “Well, if he thinks I’m going to settle for just plain ‘nice,’ he has another thing coming. Nice is a bare minimum requirement. You have to try harder than that!”_

_“And you deserve someone trying harder than that,” Sammy said quietly. When she turned to look at him, he blinked, face growing a bit warm. “Anyone does. I don’t pretend to know much about this love thing, but I’m pretty sure caring about one another’s favorite interests is just a given.”_

_“Exactly.” She went to move the vase, then stopped with a sigh. “Poor things; they didn’t ask to be sent by a no-try nice-guy. I’ll leave them until they wilt on their own. It’d be a shame to just chuck them.”_

_“Why not give them to Norman?” Sammy said suddenly, and Susie looked at him in confusion. “Norman’s husband loves roses,” he explained. “I heard him mention that once, around Valentine’s. Take off the tag and maybe charge him a bit of money if his pride demands it, and the roses go to someone who actually likes them, they’ll be out of your hands, and you won’t have to be the one trying to carefully transport them home. Or leaving them in my office. Easy.”_

_“Gooooood idea.” She smiled, picking the vase up. “Thanks, Sammy!”_

_“Of course,” he answered, turning back around in his desk as he returned to his music._ Thump thump thump, _went his heart._

_“It was nothing.”_

* * *

#### BABY’S BREATH

_Sammy shifted his grip on the precious package, hesitating outside the theater. One hand reached for the doorknob, gripped it tightly, then let go._

_God damn it. Pull yourself together, Lawrence._

_Deep breath in. Deep breath out. He grabbed the knob again and turned it, entering the room._

_It was dark, as he’d left it, Susie sitting with a rigid back in a seat at the very front. Little sniffles filled the room and Sammy felt his stomach clench a little even though he knew they were joyful tears._

_Calm down. He was about to make her cry more, anyway, so there was no point in letting himself get all flustered by the sounds of her stifled weeping. He cleared his throat and walked over, pivoting on his heel once he reached her to stand in front of her. She looked up at him with a wide, teary smile that turned into a look of confusion when she spied what lay in his arms._

_He held it out to her._

_“Congratulations.” He smirked. “Told you that you’d knock it out of the park.”_

_“Oh- Sammy!” She accepted the bouquet from him with a watery laugh. “Oh Sammy, you shouldn’t have!”_

_“Of course I should have. You did amazingly. Incredibly.” He folded his hands behind his back, willing himself not to duck his head. “Everyone’s going to love Alice, and you’re the one who brought her to life.”_

_“You even got me my favorites,” she laughed, rubbing a fist into one eye as she glanced down again at the sunflowers and daises so carefully arranged in their paper wrapping._

_“Of course. Presents shouldn’t be half-assed! You said those were your favorites.”_

_“I did.” She smiled at him, the bubbly surprise melting into something softer, sweeter. “... You know, you really are sweeter than sugar underneath all that grouchiness.”_

_His face flushed hot and all thoughts whited out as she leaned forward and kissed his cheek._

_His head filled with cotton, staring at her as she leaned back, able to count most of the teardrops on her long lashes, the lashes that framed those eyes, those_ eyes-!

_She smiled at him again._

_“Now let’s go find water for them.”_

_He nodded, dumbly, stumbling along with her in a daze as she took his hand and pulled him from the room._

So this is what it’s like to float on cloud nine, _he thought._ I hope I never come down.

* * *

#### HEAVENLY VOICE

_The pipes sang, the wood creaked, the ink dripped. Try as he might, the wood protested hideously wherever he stepped. This was a particularly bad area, apparently._

_Music._

_He halted, tilting his head for a moment before looking up._

_Humming floated around the room like dust motes in sunlight, interrupting the steady stream of tinkling song that he always heard calling to him in the Ink._

_It called to him. Not the same way the Ink did, but it did. It called, tugged, and the empty hole in his heart responded. A deep, aching longing, a need, filled the core of his being right to the brim._

_Suddenly his chest seized and he gasped, fingers clenching against the inky shell, beneath which was his heart._

_No. No, this was_ not _the only world he’d ever known. There was once something else, something else besides just a body that didn’t hurt, didn’t look wrong- there was once light and- and- joy! Safety! And-_

_Oh no, no no-! As soon as the images burst before his mind they were fading, and-_

_No, he had to do something to stop it! He had to! He couldn’t forget again-!_

_The humming grew in pitch and his head ached, the ache suddenly spiking into sheer agony. The world went sideways for a moment as he pitched into a wall, staggering into it._

_The agony lifted, leaving him breathing heavily, leaning into the wall._

_Ah... what was he so upset about again? He blinked._

_Humming._

_That voice. Wasn’t he thinking about that a moment ago? He struggled to recall. Yes, he was, wasn’t he? What was he thinking about? He tugged absently on his hair, wincing as a small chunk of it gave easily under his hand. He let the inky hair fall to the ground. Something about the humming..._

_The creature- the angel! It was an angel, singing. Did the Ink tell him that? He wasn’t sure, but the word ‘angel’ remained burned into his mind in lines of fire and longing._

_He needed to go find her._

_“Forgive me, my Lord,” he said aloud in a whisper, casting an apologetic glance at the whispering, singing pipes that would surely lead him back to his god if he followed their song. It always did, after all, even if in a roundabout way. “But I need to seek this out first...”_

* * *

#### YOU BRING DEATH

_The voice was closer now. He was closer!_

_Tired though he was, the sound put a pep in his step. That beautiful voice, that sound like rang like church bells..._

_He was so close now. Almost there._

_The hallway ended in a door and he tugged it open, noting the pentagram on the wall directly next to where the door opened. The mark of his Lord, by which all things in the Well could return._

_As grateful as he was for that gift, he hoped he’d never have to use it. But that shouldn’t be a problem._

_The humming stopped for a few moments and his heart dropped, only soothed when it began again. He closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment of indulgence, before shaking it off and stepping forward again, one hand adjusting the old rope that kept the banjo on his back secured._

_He was going to find the angel, and... something was going to happen. His heart swelled. Something great was going to happen._

_He hopped down the steps and across the room, and up the ones that led to a pair of metal doors that were open. A quick glance upwards made him pause and squint._

_SHE’S QUITE A GAL!_

__Yes, she is. __

_As soon as he thought it, it was gone. A quiet noise left him, and he looked down and back to the doors, slipping through._

_The hallway beyond wasn’t very long and had a couple kinks in it, but at the end, a light from above illuminated a long-haired woman, her back to him, humming._

_His heart was pounding now. And... his face ached?_

_Oh. Because he was smiling._

_She moved about, working on something, clearly. He stepped forward. “H-hello! I was wondering if- if I could- maybe- play for you...?”_

_She turned around and, at the same time, he caught sight of what else was in the room_

_Corpses._

_Piles... and piles... of..._

_The world came to a halt, discordant screeching in the back of his head, a broken halo bobbing as she stepped forward._

_There were no more thoughts._

_He ran._

* * *

* * *

* * *

_**SUNFLOWERS, DAISIES**_  
_**BABY'S BREATH**_  
_**HEAVENLY VOICE**_  
_**YOU BRING DEATH**_

__

Calloused fingers traced the letters, Henry’s face tugging down in a frown.

__

He was used to seeing less than uplifting stuff written on the walls. You really didn’t get much more down than “WHO’S LAUGHING NOW” on the wall of a room where the corpse of your dead child lay on display.

__

Runner ups included such lovely phrases like “I DON’T WANT TO WORK HERE ANYMORE” along with a handprint that dragged down the wall and “THE SHEEP WILL COME TO SLAUGHTER”. Another honorable mention to “DOWN HERE, WE’RE ALL SINNERS.”

__

Oh, and “I STILL REMEMBER MY NAME.” Two smeared handprints. God. Just remembering that made him sick all over again. He found that in one of the Lost Ones’ safehouse and threw up, again.

__

He was getting used to repeatedly feeling sick.

__

But what he wasn’t used to were poems. He’d seen a few, scattered around--and he’d never forget the first one, located in Sammy’s sanctuary.

__

And, speaking of which, he had a good idea who wrote this one. Sammy did so love his poems. “A song is poetry with music,” he once said, and Henry never forgot that. Anytime he saw a poem, he remembered.

__

As he was remembering now.

__

Sammy wrote this. He was almost certain. But what was in his head when he wrote it?

__

Well... he’d say that only a god would know that, but Henry had long been sure there probably wasn’t one.

__

He reached for a nearby bucket of ink and a brush, and began to draw. After a few minutes he stopped, put the things down, and stared at it for a few minutes as if standing at a grave before walking away. A drawing of single flower now lay beneath the poem.

__


End file.
